


a trail of breadcrumbs

by valety



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Child Abandonment, Disordered Eating, Food Issues, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Neglect, Nonverbal Frisk, POV Second Person, food hoarding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-20 21:19:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6025351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valety/pseuds/valety
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frisk forgets how to feel hungry. While Underground, they start to remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a trail of breadcrumbs

**Author's Note:**

> this is about food problems so if that makes you uneasy then please avoid this for your own safety (also, warnings for casual ableist language)

Your room is small. You have four walls and a mattress, a dresser, and a box. The mattress is where you sleep and the box is where you do your homework, but the dresser's something special; the dresser's where you keep your treasures—treasures like the candy bar you won at school once, or the pack of noodles that you borrowed from the store, or the little baggy full of all those bits of cereal that would've gone uneaten at the bottom of the box had you not saved them.

Your treasures are a secret, even from your mom and dad. You keep them safe by hiding them beneath your clothes when you're not wearing them, and you only ever take them out when it's very, very late and you're sure that nobody will hear you. Even when you take them out, you're careful—you only ever eat a little bit at a time, just enough to tide you over til the morning.

 _Enough to tide you over_ isn't very much, to be honest, but the thing about being hungry is, you forget. You forget how to need. Or rather, your _body_ forgets. If you can just last long enough, then that gnawing feeling in your stomach goes numb. You may feel a little hollow afterwards, but it's nothing you can't handle. It's a reasonable sort of pain, one that doesn't leave you weak and stumbling, not the way it used to back in the beginning.

You've had a lot of practice being hungry.

You're actually pretty proud of how good you've gotten at being sneaky like this. You're not as proud of hiding from your parents. They'd probably want a share of treasure if they knew, and then you'd have to give it to them, and _then_ where would you be? What if you were really, really hungry one day, and the fridge was totally empty and mom and dad were too tired to make dinner, leaving you with nothing to eat at all? Wouldn't that be _awful?_  

You need to be prepared.

You're bad for thinking that way, probably. You're greedy. You need to learn to share. Not everything's about you. 

But if they ever find out, they'll be angry, and that would be the worst of all.

They can never, ever find out. 

Today you have a little bag of cookies borrowed from a classmate's lunchbag during recess. You think they're cinnamon, judging from the spicy smell. You'd felt a little guilty about taking them, but you haven't had cinnamon in _ages,_ so how could you resist? Besides, you'd left them a little drawing of a heart as an apology. You'd have left them something better, but you hadn't had a lunch yourself, and you'd spent all of your money on a box of bandages.

(You gotta remember to be careful with those. You need to make them last.)

They'd probably been all right. Maybe they hadn't even noticed the missing cookies. Their bag had held all kinds of things, like a sandwich and a tin of fruit and a juice box, all of which had been really, really tempting, but you hadn't wanted to be a jerk—you wouldn't take their _whole_ lunch, like some bully. You were just borrowing the thing you wanted most. You'd make it up to them as soon as possible, even if you didn't know when that would be.

You hope the heart had helped a little.

You hope they weren't mad.

You pop open the bag, taking out a single cookie and breaking it in half. You place one piece on your tongue and let it tingle in your mouth. You love cinnamon; it always seems to sparkle, the way you imagine fireworks would taste.

The cookie's gone far too quickly, but you won't eat any more. You made a promise to yourself to save them just in case, and you never break your promises.

And so the cookies, too, go into your drawer of treasures - your chest of drawers, your _treasure chest,_ you think with a smile - alongside years of stolen, rotten, hoarded food.

 

* * *

 

You'd read a story back in school once, about two children who were taken to the woods when their parents could no longer feed them. They'd made themselves a trail back home by dropping shiny pebbles and breadcrumbs, but you don't have any pebbles and you don't have any breadcrumbs, so you don't know what to do when you realize you're alone.

They probably didn't mean to, you think. It must have been an accident. They'd said the three of you were going on a family outing, and you'd been so _excited,_ because you _never_ went on family outings. And because you were excited, you must have been even stupider than usual, and they couldn't be expected to watch you _all_ the time. That wasn't fair to them.

So it must have been an accident.

Besides, even at home, your mom and dad forgot about you a lot. Not in a bad way, but in a tired sort of way. They both had to work, after all, and they had a lot of friends, and sometimes they were so busy with work and friends that it was up to you to try and make yourself noodles for dinner, even if you burned your hands a lot and often wound up eating them dry to save time. 

It was probably something like that, you decide as you wander through the brush. You got separated from them because you were stupid and they hadn't had time to remember you. You just need to get back to where the car had been, and when they remember later, they'll come back and then everything will be okay. They might be kind of angry that you wasted their time, but you'll deserve it this time for being so dumb. 

You wander Mt. Ebott for a long, long time.

 

* * *

 

There's a bowl of candy in the ruins.

You only take a piece at first.

But there's an entire bowlful, and nobody is looking, nobody else is wanting any, and so you take another, and another, and—

 _Look at what you've done,_ the voice inside your head says, and you stare wordlessly at the upturned bowl of candy on the ground.

You want to snatch up all the pieces from the dirt. You want to tear the wrappers off, devour every piece. You feel almost sick with want. 

No, not want, _greed,_ you are _greedy,_  you—

You leave, clutching the candy in your fist. You only got a few. You'll need to hold onto those. You might need them later.

It figures, that something like this would happen the moment you were left alone again. You hadn't wanted to wander off at first; the guilt from getting lost before was still weighing on your chest. All you could think was that you'd do something wrong and make things even worse.

But when you'd tried calling Toriel— _Mom Lady,_ the voice had called her—you hadn't been able to speak. You'd wanted to ask her to come back, but then your throat had gone all tight and funny, words drying up completely as she'd asked you if you were all right. 

In the end, all you'd managed was a soft _uh-huh_ before hanging up.

 _I can help you get out of here,_ the voice had whispered to you then with something almost resembling sympathy. And you weren't really wandering off alone if you had the voice with you, right? The voice was like a friendly spirit, a mysterious guide, and for some reason, you felt like you could trust them. 

But look at you. You've already done something wrong. You've already ruined something. Nobody else can have that candy now. You did bad. 

_Relax. I was kidding. It's not that big a deal._

You don't think you can relax, but then you feel your hair ruffle, like a breeze from nowhere, or maybe an invisible hand, and you take a deep, steadying breath. 

 

* * *

 

As you wander the crumbling, vine-covered ruins, you learn a thing or two about yourself.

Namely, you learn that you're not afraid of monsters.

In the darkness, you can see the gleam of watchful eyes and teeth, but it's nothing that would make you jump. Some of them may get a little close, but they're just curious—heck, most of them seem almost afraid of _you._ Besides, it's hard to be scared when the voice in your head won't stop offering sardonic commentary on everything, making you laugh despite how sick you still feel from the candy bowl incident. 

There are things you _are_ afraid of, but they're all waiting for you on the surface. You're afraid of raised voices, especially when they're raised at you. You're afraid of when you slip downstairs in the middle of the night to look for leftovers only to find your parents sitting in the living room. You're afraid of bone; you can count your every rib, and you worry sometimes that if you trip and fall you'll splinter.

But you're not afraid of monsters. Especially not the ones who smile at you if you smile first, or the ones who tweak your hair with a curious expression, or the ones who offer you a handful of gold as a gift before fluttering away.

 _It's not real,_ the voice points out. _It's pyrite. But they use it as currency down here, so it's still a good idea to hang onto it._

 _Money!_ you think, closing your fist around it. You wonder if there are any stores nearby. Without access to your treasure chest, you haven't been able to have your secret midnight snacks lately. Maybe you can get something to eat without borrowing for once. 

 _No stores down here,_ says the voice. _At least, I don't remember there being any._

But apparently the voice doesn't know everything after all, because not too far into the ruins, you find a bake sale. 

The sign asks for 7G. It's not real money, you remind yourself as you place the coins onto the spiderweb. You'll be leaving soon and you won't need it anymore. It's okay to spend it while you can.

A little team of spiders scurries out of nowhere, bringing you a donut and carrying away the coins. You accept it with a smile and a nod, hoping they don't think you're rude for not saying _thank you._

With a note of faint disgust, the voice asks, _you're not going to_ eat  _that, are you?_

Your smile falters. 

The voice is right. You probably shouldn't.

You slip the donut into your pocket. 

Despite everything, you feel a little better, especially now that you have the weight of proper food sitting in your pockets again. You may not have your treasure chest, but you'll be okay as long as you have _something._ Just in case. Just in case. 

 _Let's get going,_ says the voice, and you nod and hurry onward.

 

* * *

 

The bedroom you are taken to by Toriel—Mom Lady?—looks like it belongs inside a storybook. It's full of worn, comfortable-looking furniture, the dresser packed with brightly-coloured clothes and the bed bigger than anything you've ever known. At the foot of the bed there sits a chest of toys simply begging to be played with, and it's too much. It's all too much. What are you meant to do with it all?

Toriel, Mom Lady, mom, leaves you alone to get used to your surroundings. When she does, the voice instantly awakens, tugging you towards the toys insistently, saying,  _look at all these cool toys!_

They sound almost like another kid for once, and you feel like a fond, indulgent parent as you turn towards the toys. But when you do, your vision instantly begins to swim. You feel strange, you realize; thick and exhausted, your breathing heavy. 

You stare in the direction of the toys, not really seeing them, and the voice dryly observes,  _they don't interest you at all._

You rub at your eyes. 

 _Sorry,_ you think. _Tired._

 _Go to sleep?_ the voice suggests.

The bed looks so, so soft, an absolute ocean of comfort. You wonder yet again if it really is okay for you to be here. Maybe this whole thing was a mistake; maybe Toriel thought you were someone else. Maybe she'll send you away when she realizes that you're just a kid, not worthy of a place as nice as this. 

You're almost afraid to approach the bed, but something other than yourself is pulling you towards it, and you fall asleep practically the instant you hit the mattress.

When you wake up, the lights have been turned off and a slice of pie is sitting on the floor beside the bed.

Your mouth waters when you see it. At the same time, your stomach lurches.

A slice of pie. An _entire_ slice of pie. For you? Butterscotch and cinnamon, for _you._ Left for you by Toriel?

And there's no one else to eat it, and it's _right there,_ and you think you kind of want it, even if it's greedy of you, even if that makes you bad, because it's _right there_ and it smells so _good_ and it looks so _sweet_ and it has _cinnamon_ and you think you might be—

You leave the pie untouched.

Later, it goes into your pocket as well. 

 

* * *

 

Toriel stands before you, eyes cold, fire rising all around you. You're staggering. Your head is throbbing. You cannot see. Your vision is swimming and you cannot fight, cannot dodge, cannot think. You are so tired. Your chest is heaving.

Focus on breathing, you think. As long as you can breathe, you'll be okay. In and out, in and out...

 _You're going to faint!_ the voice—Chara, apparently—screams inside your head. You wince; they're so loud. It makes your head hurt even more.  _Eat something, you have all that shit with you—Frisk, come_ on, _even just a piece of that gross candy will help—_

But you can't. You can breathe, so you're okay, and you might need that candy later when it's more important. You can _do_ this. You are very strong and very brave and not afraid of anything except for maybe those two people who you know are looking for you and if you make them wait for you any longer then they will be mad. You can't stop, you won't give in, you—

The last thing you see is a mother's horrified expression as you fall.

 

* * *

 

Dark. Dark. Dark. Everywhere is dark. 

 

 

Somewhere, a voice. 

 

 

_...can't give up...future of..._

 

 

Someone's hand in yours, pulling you up through the darkness. 

 

* * *

 

>RESET

 

* * *

 

Toriel stands before you, eyes cold, fire rising all around you. You're staggering. Your head is throbbing. You cannot see. Your vision is swimming and you cannot fight, cannot dodge, cannot think. You are so tired. Your chest is heaving.

Focus on breathing, you think. As long as you can breathe, you'll be okay. In and out, in and out...

 _Eat a piece of candy,_ Chara orders. _Sugar gives you energy._

When you meet Toriel's eyes, you suddenly find yourself thinking,  _I died._

You feel the strangest you have ever felt.

 _Eat a piece of candy,_ Chara repeats.

You don't want to, but they say it with such authority that it's hard for you to resist.

You take out a piece of candy, unwrapping it and popping it into your mouth. Very un-licorice-like.

 

* * *

 

 _You should've eaten that spaghetti,_ Chara thinks disapprovingly.

They'd seemed kind of magical and mysterious before, but it turns out that they're just a nag.

 _It didn't look very good,_ you say apologetically.  _And I'm not hungry, anyway._

 _Don't lie to me! I can_ feel _how hungry you are. It's making_ me  _hungry, too._

They fall silent, and then, in an odd tone, they add, _I didn't even recognize it at first. It's been so long._

_But I'm not—_

_Shut up, Frisk._

Once again, you feel your hair ruffle, as though tousled by a gust of wind.

You're in Snowdin now, after hours of trudging through the mounds of snow. A ribbon, a bandanna, and all kinds of food are sitting in your pockets. It's so cold that your breath is hanging on the air, a shimmering cloud of white, like smoke from a dragon, and maybe you're a dragon now, your hoard being all the snacks that you've got hidden in your pockets.

_You're not a dragon, dummy,_

It's quiet in Snowdin. The air itself seems frozen, not a sound accompanying you other than the quiet crunching of your footsteps in the snow. You shiver and rub your arms, trying to think about dragons and fire and smoke. Maybe thinking about hot things will keep you warm. 

You're so tired, despite all that candy that you'd eaten earlier. But your parents will be looking for you _—_ you need to keep going. 

_Hey, Frisk?_

The food in your pockets feels so heavy now, like lead, but you can't let it slow you down. You need to get home. 

Then, a little more sharply: _Frisk!_

 _Yeah?_ you think. Even your thoughts are sleepy. 

_You're tired. Let me steer._

Steer. You giggle. What a funny way of putting it.

 _I'll get you to the inn,_ Chara says. _We'll sleep and get some food in you. You'll feel better afterwards._

 _I've already had so much, though,_ you think, but you're too tired to really protest in a way Chara can hear.

You don't want to go to the inn. You want to go home. But Chara is insistent, and fighting them takes up too much energy to bother.

You let go without another word, letting them step forward as you fall.

 

* * *

 

When you come to, you're sitting on the edge of the bed and holding a cinnamon bun.

 _Breakfast,_ Chara explains.  _Eat it and we'll go._

Your stomach twists.

It smells like warmth and sugar and spice. It smells like home, like Toriel and fire magic and the bed that had been too soft for you.

 _Just a little bit,_ Chara says, and their voice is gentler than you have ever heard it. You almost can't recognize them when they're not being rude. _Just a bite. You already have a lot. You won't run out by eating this. It's okay._

You swallow. Once, then twice. It smells delicious. You think you might be drooling. 

Slowly, bandaged fingers trembling, you tear off just the teeniest, tiniest bit. Small enough that nobody will miss it. Small enough that nobody will mind. 

You slip the piece into your mouth, and instantly, the taste of cinnamon bursts over your tongue.

Your eyes begin to water. 

 _Are you okay?_ Chara asks, suddenly alarmed. _Fuck, I'm sorry, that was—_

 _I'm okay,_ you interrupt. You raise your hand, wiping at your eyes with the frayed sleeve of your sweater. _I'm okay. I just...like cinnamon._

Chara remains silent, but their silence feels meaningful, somehow, as though they're watching, waiting to see what you will do. 

You tear off another piece of the bun, a little bigger this time. Once again, you place it in your mouth. You chew and you chew and you chew and you swallow, letting it settle in your stomach, more weight than you've felt in a long, long time. But it doesn't feel like leaden weight of shame or fear or guilt _—_ it's a comfortable kind of weight, like a thick blanket being draped over your shoulders when you're shivering. 

 _It's good,_ you think, and you feel something warm and gentle flowing through you, like the memory of a fireplace, or a hug.

 _I like chocolate better,_ Chara says as the warmth recedes. _I haven't had it in a while, though._

You tear off another piece. 

 _I'll have some for you sometime,_  you say.

_You'd better._

You finish the entire bun, and when you leave the inn, you're ravenous. 

You stop by the shop and buy another cinnamon bun. Like an afterthought, you order a hot chocolate as well. 

You eat and drink them slowly. It's difficult. It feels like your entire body is fighting you, from your trembling hands to your clenching throat to the heart that whispers _you don't really need this_ even as your stomach tears itself apart from desperation. But Chara's hungry, and you promised them that you'd have chocolate. So maybe, possibly, it's okay for now.

You only get through half of that bun, and you can't finish the hot chocolate, but Chara seems appeased regardless.

When you leave Snowdin that morning, for the first time in years, you feel full.


End file.
